The Fall
by CrazyKater
Summary: (Slight AU of Triangle set after Adam's accident.) Laura Dayton spent most of her time thinking about the fall.


Note: This is a nonsensical short story I wrote after a re-watch of all the "game" episodes and Triangle. Quick disclaimer, I really don't care for the character of Laura Dayton, so why I decided to write this from her POV is really anyone's guess. I have such a difficult time believing she and Adam would have actually come together to begin with, so, I suppose, this is my attempt to make their tumultuous union more believable to myself.

* * *

Laura Dayton spent most of her time thinking about the fall.

It was a pleasant time of year. The days would begin to shorten; the temperature would slowly decline, transforming the leaves of the trees around them, leaving them all—save for the beauty of the steadfast pines—an array of colors. Brown, orange and red were all beautiful colors, fitting of shorter days and long nights. She and Adam could marry in the fall if he continued to improve steadily.

They had wanted a spring wedding—in all honesty, she had always dreamed of a large spring wedding— but there was little to be done about that now. Not after the fall. The one which had left Adam captive to his bed, his back nearly broken, his legs, once muscular and lean, immobile and shrinking, becoming smaller and smaller with each passing day. That fall hadn't been pretty; Adam might have been alright had he not landed hard on the lumber stacked on the ground. It wasn't to be. Still, he was her fiancé and she tried hard to stand by his side, supporting him the best she could.

The first time she had been betrothed was nothing like this. Frank had been older and she had been so young. At fifteen she had been overjoyed to become the focus of Frank. She looked upon him as though he was keeper of her future; her way out of her mother's scandalous shadow and into polite society. Oh, how she had run to Frank, arms open and willing, and not much time had passed before their marriage had become necessary.

But her engagement to Adam wasn't like that. It had been facilitated by friendship, fondness and love, hadn't it? That was what the little voice in her head whispered, time after time, when she laid awake in bed, Peggy asleep beside her, in their shared room on the Ponderosa.

Was it love that had led her here?

She was in her current location because of Adam's injury. It was odd being on the Ponderosa both day and night. If she had a choice she and Peggy would be at their home, in their own beds. But Adam's current difficulties had rendered her without such a thing. She hadn't wanted to come here; duty had dictated the action.

Will didn't want her to be on the Ponderosa—this was a sentiment that most days she suspected Adam shared. It was a feeling communicated through the dark anger glistening in his eyes. In spite of his silence on the matter, his feelings were clear—if not to anyone else then at least to her.

"He's occasionally difficult," Ben Cartwright, Adam's father, had volunteered one evening when she had become overcome by emotion in front of the roaring fireplace. She was thankful he was the only person who was privy to such a thing. She was grateful Peggy had long since gone to bed. "Adam doesn't know how to need people properly. He's too accustomed to looking after others to be comfortable being taken care of himself."

Hugging her paternally, holding her close to his chest, she thought his voice held a hint of tears. This was a thought she dismissed quickly, closing her eyes as not to see his face.

"If you need to hold someone accountable for that, then blame me," he continued. "He came up fast and hard, Laura. I expected too much from him at too early of an age."

"I could never blame you," she whispered brokenly. "I adore you; Peggy does too."

"Peggy," Ben said. "Adam loves her deeply; he speaks of her fondly, as though she was his own."

She didn't say anything in response to that. She couldn't work up the nerve. She hadn't been thinking of Peggy or Adam just before the fall. But they were all she thought about after. Her guilt and remorse consumed her a little more each day.

Peggy was attached to Adam—there was no denying that. And staying on his family's property, she was beginning to become more attached to Hoss and Little Joe. With them she had family. Permanence. Two doting uncles and a loving grandfather in the form of Ben. The future Peggy once-Dayton-eventually-Cartwright would have as a result of her mother's impending marriage was almost too bright. Peggy had become accustomed to Adam; she was eager for him and her mother to marry so that the three of them could become a proper family. Knowledge of Peggy's love for Adam felt like a burden to Laura, it weighed heavily upon her, crushing her a little more each day she spent not married—but still betrothed—to Adam who lay broken in his bed.

…

"Why would you want me like this?" Adam asked, one afternoon while Laura sat next to him.

She held his hand in both of her own and squeezed; it was an effort that was not reciprocated.

"Because I love you," she said. When Adam scoffed, she knew her lie had been detected. "Peggy loves you," she qualified.

"I love her," he said simply. He didn't speak to Laura the rest of the afternoon

…

Later, on the porch watching the trees began to change, Laura thought about the fall. It was so closed but it seemed so far away, hints of its impending arrival clinging to morning temperature and the changing leaves.

Sometimes she thought about leaving Adam. Horrid thoughts that consumed her in the nighttime hours that she was careful to keep to herself. Will was no help with thoughts like these. He wanted her to leave Adam; he, himself, fostered dreams of leaving his uncle's property completely.

"We could go anywhere," he would whisper in her ear, his voice low and breath-filled as he stood, their very closeness Impermissible as they stood, their arms wrapped around each other, their visit clandestine in the barn. "We could be anything. Laura, let me take you away from here."

She shook her head against his chest. "No," she said. She had made her bed and she would lay in forever next to Adam once they were married.

"It isn't right for you to feel so responsible," Will said. "What happened to Adam isn't your fault."

She snorted, wondering how that could possibly be. Adam's fall was a direct result of her and Will. If the man next to her didn't want to admit that then the responsibility of bearing the truth fell completely on her shoulders. For a moment, she wondered which man she would be better off with. Adam or Will? One man seemed to have everything a woman desired to have in a husband; the other nothing a woman or mother would want.

...

"I still want you," she declared half-heartedly. "This doesn't change anything, at least not for me."

Adam looked at her as though he was looking right through her and when he shook his head, she was sure he was going to finally lay blame for his current circumstance.

"You don't know what you want," he said.

With those words, Laura felt oddly transported back in time.

"You don't know what you want," Adam Cartwright had once declared to a sixteen-year-old Laura.

"I want to marry Frank," she had said forcefully, praying she sounded sure. She hadn't wanted to talk to Adam about her impending marriage. It was just something that had come up. It was all the town could talk about, it seemed.

"You shouldn't do it."

He sounded so passionate, his eyes glistening so beautifully in the summer sun that she wondered—for the briefest of moments—what life could be like aside such a man. Adam was younger than Frank but there was a sincerity to his words and expression that seemed to be lacking with older men.

"I have to," she said. Setting her chin, she hoped her words sounded as forceful as his. Arms bent, her hands settled unconsciously, protectively against her still-flat belly. It was flat then but for how long? She prayed she wouldn't start to show until after rings and vows were exchanged.

Eyes setting on her stomach, Adam's brows furrowed and he seemed to understand. She remembered not wanting him to understand, his next words as unwelcome as the ones which had come before.

"You still have a choice, Laura, even if you think you don't."

"Yeah, right," she whispered. For someone who was so educated, he certainly was dumb. "And what kind of life would I have if I decided not to marry Frank? What kind of life would we have?" She looked at her stomach. "I won't do to my child what my mother did to me."

"I think my father once said those words," Adam said, shaking his head thoughtfully. "Of course, at the time, he was thinking of his father, not his mother though it didn't make them any less ill-thought-out. We're all destined to become our parents, I think, at least in some way."

This was a statement that continued to haunt Laura long after it had been remembered, seeming so old yet so apt at the same time.

She thought of it while Hop Sing allowed her to help prepare breakfast, lunch, and dinner. She was consumed by it as she struggled to keep herself busy and out of the way, dusting and picking up the already immaculate house. Hop Sing didn't need any assistance attending to the household chores, and Adam didn't need her help with his daily requirements, not with his father and brothers remaining so close. They doted on him, waited patiently in the wings for each beck and call, anxiously sprinting forward to fulfill each and every requirement or whim before she was even aware of it.

Adam was like his father—of this she became more and more certain each and every day. She saw Adam in Ben's stubbornness, his certainty his son would walk again. She hoped she saw Adam in Ben's loyalty and forgiveness, his ability to move on from the past and begin each day anew. Will was a testament to that, before being located and invited back to the Ponderosa he was nothing more than a criminal—at least that was what she had heard.

But what she believed was something else entirely.

She believed Will was an honest man; sometimes, during the darkest of night, she allowed herself to admit she loved him. But when morning came, she didn't know what to do. She couldn't seem to find a place beside Adam with all the people he already had; she didn't want to find her place among them, and she didn't know what to say to Peggy when her daughter fixated on a future that suddenly seemed so far away.

"When are we going to go home, Mommy?" Peggy had begun to ask.

"We can't go home, Darling, at least not until Adam begins to improve."

"He has improved," Peggy stubbornly insisted. "He can sit in his chair and he can go outside and play ball."

"Of course, those are both welcome improvements, but he needs to improve more. His father—Grandpa Ben—wouldn't dare allow him to leave in his condition. Adam needs to be better than he currently is."

Though Peggy pressed her for more, Laura couldn't find words to continue the conversation. She was too overcome by thoughts of the fall to pay further mind to her daughter.

It would be lovely to be married in the fall.

She and Adam could have the wedding and future she hadn't had with Frank. Their wedding had been traditionally shotgun, their future existing in a timepiece destined to expire. Peggy had been a joyful addition, but with Frank Laura had always been waiting—waiting for him to leave, waiting for him to come back; then one day he never came back and the waiting had fallen to Peggy to endure.

Laura hadn't had the courage to tell her daughter the truth, something which Adam had been adamant was shared. Laura hadn't had the words to speak of such a thing, to dash her innocent daughter's eager hope with a truth so irrefutable as death. Oh, how Laura had hated him for daring to bring it up, at least at first. Over time she had come to be grateful for his initiative and his ever-lingering presence. Sometimes he infuriated her, others he brought her joy, and later—after Ward Bannister had come and gone—she had become accustomed to Adam bringing her a very specific type of comfort she hadn't known since before Frank's death.

Sometimes she wondered if Adam would have proposed had they never given into their desires. They hadn't intended for it to happen. It was just something that couldn't be stopped. One evening when Peggy was fast asleep upstairs, Adam and Laura had begun kissing and then things had developed from there. Neither of them had meant for it to happen—she was certain of that. It was an accidental thing; things had progressed so quickly that they just couldn't be stopped. Adam had taken her on the settee in the living room that night, and then in the days and weeks that followed, he had taken her time and time again. In the kitchen and the barn, places she had never dreamed of with Frank. Frank had been predictable; Adam, surprisingly enough, never was.

There was an odd spark between she and Adam, sometimes it was hard to believe they truly had one at all. They infuriated each other and they drew one another closer and further away; they hated and loved the challenge each presented the other. Adam with his swell headedness, obnoxious opinions and endless advice. And her with her ceaseless naïveté, short-sightedness and determination to make decisions on her own no matter the cost. Perhaps, the only thing predictable about their fluctuating union was the complication which eventually developed.

The days on the Ponderosa seem long, the nights almost longer somehow. The house was oddly quiet despite the number of people inhabiting it. On the nights Laura couldn't sleep, she counted them all, her extended fingers juvenile proof of each one. Hop Sing, Ben, Hoss, Little Joe, and of course Adam, those were the five who belonged there. Herself, Peggy, and Will were all visitors, guests in a house that would never feel quite like home.

Will slept in the bunkhouse among the hands—Ben had encouraged him to lay claim to a bedroom in the house, but he declined. For now, Laura was grateful for the space between her and the man who would so eagerly become her beau.

Had Frank been that eager for her to belong to him?

Was Adam?

He had called her eager. Time and time again he had as she pulled insistently at his shirt and belt-buckle, her breath eventually coming in gasps as he willingly complied with her desire and need. Had Adam been eager to have her then? He was always so stoic, so determined not to give his true feelings away. His body had responded to the heat of the moment but she wasn't sure if his heart ever had. He had never lingered after. He was always so quick to dress and take his leave. Each time he left her she questioned his intentions; she wondered who he was more disgusted with. Her or himself.

This was the question that haunted her the most as she lay in the darkness of her temporary bedroom on the Ponderosa. She didn't have the answer to ease the ever-growing weight on her heart. Sometimes it felt so heavy she was certain it was being crushed, mashed into an unrecognizable irreparable heap. Then she realized such a thing wasn't possible; you couldn't break what had already been broken. Her heart had already been shattered, an inevitable consequence of the fall.

Losing his balance, Adam had fallen too quickly to prevent the seriousness of the eventual outcome. He had hit the lumber on the ground with so much force that the boards splintered and split. His body bent at odd angles, he was so still. For a moment, she thought he was dead; for one terrible second, she felt relieved. Then came the truth of the situation, insistent and heart-wrenching, and numbness overtook her like a fog. It was through this mist that she watched events unfold around her like a dream.

Adam was taken home, the doctor came and went, and Ben Cartwright, his expression pinched with worry refused to leave his son's bedside. She and Peggy moved to the Ponderosa to help, and sometime during the length of those seemingly endless late summer days, she began to think about the fall.

The colors would change, the temperature would cool, the days would somehow become more bearable than they were now. It would be a splendid time for a wedding. The bouquets would be startling but beautiful, composed of leaves. Red and orange and brown, the winsomeness of the colors would negate the unorthodox display. It wouldn't be the first time a union between her and Adam resulted in such a thing.

…

"I've been thinking about the fall," Laura said one afternoon as she sat at Adam's bedside. She reached for his hand and he pulled it away.

"Me too," he said gruffly.

Laura knew though they wouldn't never speak of it directly, neither of them were talking about the season. She found herself wishing he would pull her closer or push her away completely. That he would decide upon his own decision to the choice he had once presented to her.

…

It was the previous fall when Laura found herself in a repeated predicament, the circumstances of which were perhaps the only detail her relationship with Adam mirrored that she had with Frank. When she told Adam she was with child, he was neither happy nor depressed by the news. To her, he seemed oddly detached, indifferent to such a serious development. He had done what she expected. He had proposed on the spot, and she had done something unpredicted. She had promptly kicked him out of her house.

"I won't be your wife out of charity or misplaced responsibility!" she declared.

Pressing her body against the closed door, she closed her eyes and fought tears, desperately hoping he would say what she needed to hear the most. A man of so many words should have been well-equipped to deal with the situation—or so one would think. Through the door, she heard him exhale heartily.

"It's your choice, Laura," he said softly. "It is, even if you think it's not."

"And what would you have me choose?"

"Me," he said simply. "I can't promise you love, but I can give you a good life."

It was an answer which received no reply.

The days turned to weeks, during which Will joined the Cartwright clan and Aunt Lil came to stay indefinitely with Laura and Peggy. Growing ever-so-slightly, Laura's impregnated belly proved easy enough to hide from a casual eye—and even Aunt Lil's lingering one—but it was Laura's sporadic stomach sickness that was becoming harder and harder to explain.

"Baby, if I didn't know any better than I'd think you were with child," Lil said casually one afternoon while struggling to encourage Laura's declining appetite.

"That's silly," Laura bitterly spat, her emotions too volatile to control. "I don't have a husband. I'm a widower; there isn't anyone in this territory who would dare look at me as a prize."

Casting her a curious gaze, Lil didn't respond. When the silence became prolonged Laura burst into tears— a violent fit of emotion that became more and more frequent as Adam remained absent. She should have known then trouble was on the immediate horizon. She should have seen at least a glimpse of it in Lil's growing mischievous grin.

…

Adam's transition from bed to wheelchair was not easy. Distended and stretched taught, his back and leg muscles had become accustomed to not shifting or moving on the flatness of his mattress. Carefully following the doctor's orders, they hadn't waited long to get him up and into the chair; however, they had had to wait. Wheelchairs weren't a commodity in Virginia City, such a thing had to be sent for, the delivery anxiously awaited upon for weeks. Two long weeks had passed until it arrived, then another day before enough collective nerve had been worked up for Adam to try it. They all knew it wasn't going to be an easy thing for him to do; moving muscles that were so inflamed and angry promised intense pain.

Of course, it was Adam who had to work up the most courage. Courage to endure the pain the movement promised; courage to allow them to watch as it dissolved his composure, and he went from quiet to agitated in seconds.

Standing helplessly in the doorway, Laura watched a troublesome scene unfold before her. It was Hoss who helped Adam into the chair, lifting him with careful ease. Laura wasn't certain if his fluent motions should be attributed to Hoss's strength or Adam's current weakness. It was a thought that left her quickly; it was erased as Adam's yelp cut through the stillness of the room.

It was an expression of agony all of them felt—Ben, Hoss, Little Joe, and Laura—as they flinched in unison. The men in the room were better at disguising their feelings related to enduring such a terrible moment. Though Laura remained rooted in place, Adam's father and brothers did what they could to comfort him.

Still leaning over directly in front of him, Hoss didn't budge as Adam grasped his upper arms and squeezed tight, holding them with such force that his knuckles turned white, his fingertips promising to bruise his brother's skin beneath the sleeves of his shirt.

Body shaking from effort, Adams's eyes were closed tightly but that didn't stop tears from escaping them and streaming down his cheeks.

"Tell me what you need to do, brother," Hoss prompted calmly. "You can sit it out or I can put you back to bed. It's up to you."

Breath coming in thick, tearful gasps, Adam didn't reply. He couldn't, Laura realized, for danger of breaking down completely.

"Let's give it a few minutes," Ben softly encouraged. "Allow your back some time to adjust and calm down." Procuring a wet cloth, he cleaned Adam's face, then stood ready to repeat the motion as necessary when new trails of tears emerged from beneath Adam's closed eyes.

Forehead wrinkling with effort, Adam remained speechless, his nose, however, had begun to run and he emitted a sporadic series of sniffles. It was such a terrible noise, sounding so foreign from such a strong man. Just when Laura was certain she could no longer endure it, it stopped, ceased by the inclusion of Adam's nose in Ben's repeated wiping of his cheeks.

Stepping forward, Joe focused his attention on assisting both of his brothers. Dislodging Adam's grip on Hoss's arms, he guided one hand toward Hoss's and took the other in his own. They both crouched, each on their respective sides of the chair, each allowing Adam to squeeze their hands painfully tight.

"You're doing good, Adam," Hoss encouraged.

"Just hang on for a little bit longer," Ben soothed.

"It'll be easier next time," Joe assured. "You'll see."

Watching Adam and his family interact, Laura wanted to echo the encouraging statements but she couldn't seem to find the right words. She couldn't help feeling as though she was intruding; she couldn't help believing that what Ben had told her about Adam was wrong.

It wasn't that Adam wasn't good at needing people. He was fine with needing them. It was her he had trouble accepting assistance from. It was a fact for which no blame could be placed. Laura didn't need Adam to justify or apologize for the way he was. She understood. She didn't want to need him either. And most days she was able to convince herself she never would.

…

Laura had begun to show ever-so-slightly by the time Aunt Lil manipulatively planned a dinner party with both Adam and Will. Her stomach was beginning to grow, swelling and protruding marginally beneath clothes which seemed to shrink a little more each day. Still, she was sure her condition was still mild enough it was indecipherable to an uneducated eye, just as she was certain Adam could see the changes in her physique. She caught him staring at her more than once, his fingers tangled in the Cat's Cradle Peggy was carefully crafting.

Covertly watching Will and Laura interact, Adam broke the string as Will took Laura's hand, the force of his indignation propelling his hand unconsciously toward a neighboring coffee cup. It shattered as it hit the floor, the noise enough to make her jump. Will let go of her hand as Laura's eyes met Adam's and she saw so clearly the jealousy rising from their depths.

Still, they ignored each other for the rest of the evening. Adam didn't dare speak to her until he was preparing to leave. Asking Will to ready their respective horses, he held back.

"It's your choice," he had said, repeating the words in a whisper as Aunt Lil tucked Peggy into the bed upstairs. There was the faintest of blemishes on his finger, a tiny bruise from hitting the cup with so much force. "You can either marry me or you can struggle on your own, but you don't get to carry my child and carry on with another man."

"Careful, Adam," she hissed, her anger and hurt overpowering her in an instant. "Mind your words or I might misconstrue them and be tricked into believing you actually care about me."

His face fell, much to her surprise, and he looked at her as though her true feelings hadn't occurred to him. "I care," he said. "I've done everything I can to look after this ranch, you and Peggy. You ask me to leave and I go. You ask me to come back and here I am. How can you possibly say I don't care?"

Pressing her palms to his chest, she pushed him out of the open door, then slammed it shut and burst into silent tears.

...

"Mommy?" Peggy asked, her voice trickling through the darkness of their shared bedroom on the Ponderosa. "What's wrong?"

Taking a deep shuddering breath, Laura wiped at the tears streaming down her face. She hadn't meant to wake her daughter but her silent sobs had shaken her body and the bed.

"Go to sleep, Peggy," she ordered, forcing a firm tone. She was unable to prevent her tears from thickening her voice.

"But, Mommy—"

"Peggy, I mean it."

Rolling over with a sigh, Peggy finally complied. Laura waited until her daughter's breathing changed, deepening with telltale slumber, before she rose from the bed.

Walking down the darkened hall, the floorboards felt cold beneath her feet. She didn't think about where she was headed until she finally arrived. She didn't seem to actually make a decision to descend the staircase and enter the bedroom until she'd opened the door and walked through.

The low burning oil lamp cast the bedroom in a relaxing hue as she settled in the chair next to Adam's bed. He was sleeping deeply, his face more relaxed than she had ever seen it before. He is beginning to reap the rewards of his strict exercise regimen; his back was improving and the strain awakened endless discomfort. More often than not he was wracked with muscle spasms, the strength of which demanded to be calmed by strong medicine that rendered him unconscious.

Pulling her legs up beneath her, Laura rested her chin on her knees and squeezed her legs to her chest. For a moment, she imagined it was Adam she was holding and all at once she was eager again. Eager for him to heal; eager for their struggles to be over; eager for the future to come so they both could move from where they'd become stuck.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "For everything."

…

She didn't remember much about that day in town. It was a visit that resulted in another fall, one she only rarely allowed herself to recall. It was a day that seemed to give her everything she wanted from Adam but stole the thing which had facilitated his desire to give himself to her to begin with.

She didn't recall the power of the racing horses which had knocked her from her feet and sent her sailing to land in a heap on the street. She had no specific memory of the accident itself. But she remembered waking up after being unconscious; she remembered the way Adam had looked at her and the things he had said. She recalled with appalling detail how they had made her feel. She had finally gotten her proper proposal, a declaration of love and fondness she had been longing to hear. They hadn't yet known the true cost of that fall. It would take three more days for the price to become clear.

Eventually blood dripped from her; red and accusing, it fell to forever stain her underclothes. Agony consumed her as she dropped to the floor, pulling herself into a tight ball in effort to stave off the pain. But it was too intense; it simply couldn't be stopped.

Peggy rode for Adam in a panic. Adam sent for the doctor in town. Neither Adam's comforting words, the strength of his arms holding her tightly as she cried, nor the doctor's knowledge could prevent what was meant to be.

The doctor promised discretion upon his departure. He promised Laura and Adam their current loss didn't guarantee a glaring absence in the future. There could and would be more children after their union was official and the time was right.

"Laura, this doesn't have to change anything," Adam had said. It was a kind gesture but his certain tone was a little too forced.

"Don't be silly," she whispered tearfully. "This changes everything."

And it did.

...

Sitting in his wheelchair, Adam's back was facing her as he feigned curiosity in something he saw in the distance. They had come outside to watch the sunset, an event that should have been more enjoyable than it was. They were both ignoring each other, each too quiet for their own good. She was feeling as guilty as she ever did; Adam seemed as distant as he ever felt.

"I'm sorry," Laura said once again. She said it louder this time, in case he hadn't heard her. She wondered if he had heard her; then she wondered if either of them knew what she was apologizing for.

Was she sorry about the fall or what she had done to him? Was she sorry because her behavior had led to his injury or because his injury had rendered her unable to leave him?

"I heard you the first time," he said finally.

"You didn't act like you did."

"Just because I don't act like I know things that doesn't mean I don't know they take place."

"Oh," she said, her heartbeat quickening in her chest. Was it an innocent statement fueled by anger or an allusion of something more? She didn't blame him for being angry. He was such a stoic, independent man; the seriousness of his injury had rendered him so dependent on those around him. He deserved to be short tempered, to display his anger freely so that everyone could suffer alongside him.

"When you came upon the house, it startled me to see you with him," he said, and that's when she knew something more was coming; she knew for certain he knew what she had done. "I knew things weren't great between us but I never expected the two of you to show up together; I never expected either of you to be so bold."

"Bold?" she asked dumbly.

"Bold," he repeated firmly. "Laura, you're lucky no one else saw the two of you together. You're always carrying on about the proper way for a lady to present herself, how could you be so remiss? You shouldn't have been so remiss, especially if you wanted your secret to be kept."

"You were the one who left!" she deflected. "You went to San Francisco all on your own. I didn't ask you to go. I didn't want you to go! You left because you wanted to!"

This wasn't how she foresaw the truth coming out; this wasn't how she ever thought this conversation would be. She was supposed to have the upper-hand, not him. She was supposed to maintain morality, not the man who impregnated her out of wedlock then abandoned her for weeks after the baby was lost. He had left her; it wasn't the other way around.

"What was I supposed to do?" she demanded shrilly. "I was hurt and lonely... What did you expect me to do?"

"Not what you did." His voice was low and angry. Hands gripping the wheels of his chair, Adam spun himself around with a proficiency she hadn't been aware he was capable of. Maybe he wasn't as helpless as she thought. Looking at the fury lurking in his eyes she realized he knew more than she ever wanted him to and he was angrier than she ever could have imagined he'd be.

"Adam," she said, her tears coming quickly. "I don't want to fight with you, not now. I'm sorry. If you really loved me then you would be able to see that!"

Placing her hand over her mouth to hasten her sobs, she ran away from him. She pushed passed Ben who was on his way out of the house, his face contorted with worry. He grasped her shoulders and held her in place.

"What's going on?" he asked. "Why were you arguing with him?"

"I wasn't arguing with him!" she sobbed. She sounded like a slighted teen but she didn't care. She fidgeted under his hold until she pulled out of his grasp. Bounding up the staircase, she ran down the hallway and burst into the bedroom she shared with her daughter.

Sitting cross-legged on the bed, Peggy looked up from the book sprawled in front of her. "Mommy?" she said, her face scrunching with concern. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, Peggy!" Laura cried.

Collapsing on the bed next to her daughter, she sobbed herself to sleep.

...

After their baby had been lost, the change to Laura and Adam's relationship wasn't slow; it was swift. Though they were still betrothed, Adam began to spend more and more time away. He couldn't get far enough away, it seemed. He stopped bedding her and refused to set a date for their wedding. Going to San Francisco, he was glaringly absent from their engagement party, a large celebration held by his father.

Throughout these events, Will lingered, becoming closer and closer to her and Peggy with each passing day. At first, Laura believed he was just being kind; then, she prayed he wasn't. She was lonely, her heart aching from her recent loss and Adam's absence. She wanted someone to hold her, to make her feel wanted and loved. When Will kissed her, she didn't object. When he came to see her, she didn't send him away. She knew it was wrong but she did it anyway.

Then as suddenly as he had left for San Francisco, Adam returned. With him he brought a wedding band and a desire to set a wedding date.

Looking at the wedding ring Adam had gifted her she felt her chest grow tight. If this was right then why did it feel so wrong? If they were destined to marry then why had the thing binding them together been ripped away?

"I don't want an apology," she said. And she didn't; she wanted him to leave. It was surprising how much she no longer wanted him there.

…

"I'm sorry," Adam said, his words flat.

He looked upon her in an unseeing way, his eyes glazed from medication meant to soothe his muscles. It would do its job a little-too-well, rendering him painfully quiet until forcing him to sleep. His body had not yet grown accustomed to sitting in his wheelchair for prolonged periods of time. He had overdone it today; diligently completing his exercises with his father's help, he proceeded to sit in his chair for far too long without taking time to lay down again. It was too much for his back and legs and he paid a price by enduring powerful spasms that wouldn't ease on their own. It was Ben who had suggested Adam take the medicine, retire for the evening, and start the next day anew. And surrendering his customary seat at his son's bedside, it was Ben who suggested Laura sit with Adam until he fell asleep.

"You don't have to say that," she whispered. She smoothed at the blankets covering him, needing so desperately to feel useful, longing so much to escape the moment she was currently in.

"Nah, I do," he slurred. "Because…" He frowned, seemingly struggling to recall the reason. "Because…"

"You have nothing to be sorry for, Adam."

"…I made you cry," he finally finished.

"Is that what your father told you?" she asked, thinking of how their previous argument hadn't been overheard. She didn't want to be so cynical but it couldn't be helped.

"That's what I told him."

"And what did he tell you?"

"Nothing." Inhaling a deep breath, Adam exhaled it through his nostrils, then shook his head drunkenly and frowned. "That's strange… I'm certain he would have tried to say something… he always… seems to…maybe…"

Eyes shut, he took another deep breath. Laura found herself holding her own. Helplessly waiting, anxiously anticipating for him to continue and say what she knew he never would. Maybe he had told his father the truth about her and what she had done.

"Maybe I did say something," came the gentle answer from the doorway. Glancing back, Laura found Ben looking upon his son. He made no effort to disguise the love in his tone or the fondness of his expression. "Maybe you are having trouble remembering."

"Nah." Adam said, his eyes remaining shut. "I'm a good rememberer… Besides, I'm too old for advice."

With a father like Ben Cartwright, Laura wondered if the latter would ever be true.

"Not from my point-of-view." Ben's face broke into a grin. "Rememberer? Better not let Peggy hear you say that, any kind of authority you have over her vocabulary of improper words will be lost completely."

"I don't believe that will ever be lost," Laura assured. "Peggy adores you, Adam. She'd mind anything you'd tell her to."

"Lucky for you," Adam whispered.

"And you," Ben said. "Being that you are such a good rememberer, I'm sure I don't need to remind you that most children are not as amiable to the addition of new parents as Peggy is."

"She's too forgiving," Adam snorted. "That'll change over time."

Laura flinched, absorbing the cynical statement as though it had been a carefully veiled criticism of her past behavior. It wasn't, of course. It couldn't have been. So impaired by the medicine slowly rendering him unconscious Adam wasn't capable of crafting anything beyond a direct statement or answer.

…

When Laura began carrying on with Will in private, she told herself she didn't know why she sought comfort from him. It was an explanation that was untrue. She knew why; she didn't want to own up to her own cruelty. It was her hurt and anger toward Adam that forced her into the arms of his cousin.

She blamed Adam for the loss of the baby. She held him responsible not for what he had done but what he had not. For not initially asking for her hand in a way that could be deemed acceptable. For not using his carefully crafted vocabulary better and in a way that would have made her feel accepted and loved, keeping her away from town, away from those horrible men and their too-fast horses, protecting her feelings and the life which was steadily growing inside of her womb.

Adam couldn't even manage to tell her he was fond of her correctly—before or after the incident in the street. In comparison, trouble with expressing keenness was not something Will struggled with. Though he was careful not to ever say it aloud, he said it with his eyes and the briefest of touches, cupping her cheek or hand, and he said it with his lips. When he kissed her it was deep and passionate as though he would never pull away. The gentleness of his purposeful touches covered her skin with goose-flesh, left her feeling cheerful and airy, twitter patted and dunce-like for the rest of the day.

Kissing Frank or Adam had never felt like that. How could it, when her respective feelings for them had been born from desperation and necessity? She had needed Frank to rescue her from her mother's scandalous shadow; then, when she became unwed and with child, from the threat of casting her own. And she had needed Adam; first to help her with her ranch, then to marry her and save her from disgrace when she had repeated her mistakes.

She had never needed Will to save her. It wasn't something she looked to him for. Will was neither like Adam nor Frank. He wasn't absent, or judgmental, or stern. He was warm and charismatic. He pulled her to him before she even knew she had deterred from her planned path. She had fallen for him so quickly; before she even knew she had lost her balance, her feet became unrooted from the ground. This was another very distinct fall she didn't like thinking about, the complications and consequences too bothersome to admit out loud.

Betrothed to Adam, she had allowed herself to engage inappropriately with another man. Their actions had been repugnant, shameful, and decidedly unscrupulous—though the only thing ever done was kissed. She had done worse with Frank—and even Adam—but it wasn't the action itself that was so inherently bad. It was how she had gone about it, promising herself to one man whilst running rampant with another. It was a decision that would come to haunt her relentlessly in the coming weeks, one which she knew she would never be granted forgiveness for.

…

"I'll be better for both of us if I go," Will said. "I'm sorry. It's impossible for me to stay here like this. To be around you, day after day, knowing you are eternally so close yet so far away from me. I can't stand it, Laura. I have to leave; I have to go."

Standing in front of him in the corner of the barn, Laura was taken back by the words. She felt so outside of herself listening to them, as though she was someone else and they were somewhere else completely. Will was leaving; he had decided to go to San Francisco to get away from the situation they had created together.

It was like a man to do such a thing, she thought bitterly, her heart stinging with disappointment and loss. Just like a Cartwright man, for that matter, to run away when the life surrounding them seemed particularly bleak.

What exactly was in San Francisco anyway? What was the allure of running there? Was it the promise of kinder weather?

It was land without seasons, one beautiful month leading into the next. The sun was always shining there—or at least she had heard—the temperature was eternally balmy and warm. She could never live in a place like that; she would never allow herself to seek respite where the fall didn't exist. She needed to see the change of the trees and weather, the difference in colors and temperature. Things couldn't be rose-colored and beautiful all of the time; there needed to be some type of struggle, some kind of challenge to make the peace of the summertime feel earned.

It wouldn't feel earned ever again. She wasn't deserving of it. Her recent behavior had declared her unworthy of such things.

Will turned his back in her, his attention shifting to where his saddle sat, ready and waiting for him to take his leave. She felt jolted and betrayed; she was foolish to ever expect him to stay, stand beside her, and share in the invisible weight of their mutual guilt. He was leaving his family's ranch and his fondness of her with it. Any hint of illicit longing would be rendered useless; it would be discarded, forgotten in San Francisco along with any memories of the fall.

"Adam's improving," she said. She wasn't sure the purpose of the words. Was she trying to make herself feel better, or was she trying to convince Will to stay? "He's getting better every day. It won't be much longer and he'll be walking again. You'll see."

"Laura," Will hissed as he turned around. His expression was full of pity, his tone one of a man who was explaining a simple notion to a stupid child. "He can't walk. It may be years before he can. If ever."

"No." She shook her head. She couldn't believe it; she wouldn't. "That's not true."

"Wishing won't change anything. I don't need to tell you that. You know you can't leave him. Not now. Not like this. That's why I have to go. Things will only become harder and harder the longer I stay."

"Will." Taking a step forward, she reached for his hand and fought tears as he pulled it away. "Please."

Shaking his head, he looked upon her for a moment. His expression was one of forced certainty and strength, but in his dark eyes she saw his hesitance and pain. He didn't want this and neither did she, but the fall had come and changed everything around them, forcing them to change too.

"I'll always love you," she whispered tightly.

Grinding his jaw, Will nodded and walked past her; he left her to stand alone without saying a word.

Turning in place, Laura looked out the barn door. It was so painful to watch him go, so instead she set her gaze upon the changing trees and bushes in the distant landscape. Their green hues were beginning to fade, transforming to a mixture of yellow, brown, red, and orange. Soon there would be no hint of what had once been. The coldness of the future would change them, stripping them of the beauty of their luscious leaves, leaving only their skeletal remains behind. It wouldn't be long until it would look nothing like they once had, or how she wanted them to.

...

"What's wrong, Laura?" Adam asked the morning before his accident, his eyes begging her to give voice to what they both already knew. What had taken place between them was over. It had fizzled as quickly as it began, leaving them stuck in-between what should have been and now never could be. "What changed?"

It was a question that haunted her ceaselessly. She knew the truth then but didn't dare speak it. She was too afraid of the truth for her own good. If Laura could go back, she would summon the courage to tell him what she couldn't seem to stay back then. If they could have spoken honestly for once, then maybe it would have prevented what happened. Maybe they would all be so much better off than they had become.

Will had intended to leave her back then too. It was nothing like the second time when he actually followed through. It was different for all sorts of reasons the most glaring of which were two. First, he hadn't summoned the courage to tell her of his plans himself; it was information she had learned secondhand from Hoss when she had turned up at the Ponderosa intent on speaking to both Will and Adam. Second, when she had finally found Will in town, the things she said had been enough to convince him to change his mind about leaving.

She and Will had eagerly set upon finally telling Adam the truth about their love; it was a visit which had begun with the best of intentions and ended in tragedy.

They hadn't meant to startle Adam when they came upon him building that house; it had just happened. She hadn't meant for Adam to be privy to her and Will's indiscretions before she had time to explain; Adam had just somehow known. She hadn't intended to feel so bound to Adam while he slowly recovered; there just no predicting how seeing him injured was going to make her feel. He was such a strong man; it was difficult to ever see him weak. It was painful to see him so dependent on those around him.

She didn't love him, but she couldn't leave. She couldn't abandon him when it was the shock of her indiscretion that had led to the current uselessness of his legs. How could she ever be forgiven for that? Why would Adam want to after everything she had said and done? She wouldn't blame him if he decided to keep her just to make her miserable. She wasn't sure she deserved to be happy again.

…

"Mommy!" Peggy exclaimed. Face pinched with disappointment, she ran into her mother's open arms in the courtyard between the house and the barn. "Uncle Will just left. He said he wasn't coming back!"

"I know, darling," Laura whispered. Holding her daughter close, she hoped her voice didn't betray her previous tears. She prayed she had composed herself to make her true feelings on the matter undetectable.

"I don't want him to leave," Peggy cried. "Oh, why won't he stay?"

Though Laura knew the answer, she wouldn't dare utter a word. Will had gone because he hadn't been given another choice. His love for her had rendered him incapable of such a simple thing.

Arms wrapped around her daughter, Laura set her gaze upon the changing trees and bushes in the distant landscape. The fall had come and it had changed all of them. When Peggy began to cry in earnest, Laura's own tears threatened to return. Taking a deep, calming breath, she forced herself not to give in to into them.

…

Sitting alone, surrounded by the cool, blackness of night, Laura shivered and pulled the blanket tightly around her chest. She didn't like spending time alone outside in the middle of the night. She was certain that if Ben, Joe, Hoss or even Adam knew she was doing such a thing they wouldn't like it either. It would be decidedly unallowed, especially on a night as cool as this one.

Once, after Frank's death and for the briefest periods of time, it seemed as though each of her choices had been left solely up to her; now it seemed as though even the smallest decision had been appropriated by the men surrounding her. Of course, it was always destined to be that way, wasn't it? Because that was the way a woman's life was, dictated and controlled first by their fathers, then by husbands and sons. She hadn't known her father and she didn't yet have a son, but she still had Adam, his father and brothers, all of whom had decided to graciously protect and love her and her daughter, accepting them into the folds of their family in spite of the glaring absence of wedding vows.

Will had left nearly three weeks ago but Adam still remained. Even now, despite her criticisms and indecencies he hadn't left her—not that confined to his wheelchair he really could—and he hadn't scandalized or rejected her even though he would have been more than entitled to do so. She was fortunate he hadn't. What kind of future could she promise her daughter or herself if her betrothed publicly shamed her by casting her aside, declaring her a roving tart?

What kind of woman was she really? Throwing herself at her fiancé's cousin the second his back was turned. Not the kind she wanted to be; she was certain of that.

The night was quiet around her, but the telltale squeaking of the wheels on his chair gave Adam away as he emerged from the side-door. He wasn't as stealthy as he used to be, the chair beneath him softly but steadily demanding attention from an oilcan. Hoss had meant to grease it the afternoon prior, but with Will gone and Adam's injury, he and Joe—and even Ben for that matter—had been occupied with ranch work. It was a burden they all shouldered without comment or complaint, each seemingly to silently decide never to gripe or groan about matters which would make Adam feel worse.

"Oh," Adam whispered, his voice slightly surprised as he came upon Laura where she sat on the bench. "I didn't realize you were out here."

She looked at him for a moment, struggling to discern what kind of conversation they were destined to have. Would it be pleasant or tense? Would she make him angry? Would he make her cry?

"And I didn't realize you were able to get into that chair without assistance," she said. "Or that you were fond of venturing outside at night on your own."

"It's a recent development. If Pa knew, he'd have a fit." Adam's lips curled into a slight smile. "I'm hoping that's a secret you're willing to keep."

"Of course."

There was calmness to the night; its peace enveloped them and lent itself to mild rapport, the ease of which they had not enjoyed for far too long. It reminded her of their early days, before any of the falls, when Adam would come calling, intent on helping her with anything she asked him to do. He would play with Peggy, his patience for the child's questions never ending; Laura would prepare dinner; and after, when Peggy had been sent to bed, they would play cribbage in front of the fireplace, everything seeming so perfect around them. She missed those days. The innocence of it all. There had been good times and laughter; it hadn't all been bad.

"What other secrets are you keeping?" she asked, the light question escaping her before she had time to realize she wasn't sure she wanted to be privy to the answer. If Adam had secrets then he should be allowed to keep them. With everything that had happened it was the very least he was entitled to.

"I can stand," he said.

Mouth agape, she looked at him. "What?"

Why would he dare hide such a thing? If he was standing then that meant his back was properly mending; it meant he was on his way to walking. It was good news that would be celebrated by everyone. What was the point of hiding it?

"Not without help," he qualified. "And not for very long, but I can do it."

"Does your father know?"

"No. That's why it's a secret. Only Hoss knows and now you too."

She wondered how the revelation was supposed to make her feel. What was the appropriate feeling or response when being declared suddenly trustworthy by someone she had so brutally wronged?

"That's wonderful," she said flatly. She didn't look at him. She couldn't for fear of defining the emotion prompting the odd expression on face.

Adam exhaled heartily, the only noise that passed between them for a long while.

"Ask me the question again, Laura," he said, finally breaking their silence.

"What question?"

"Ask me what secrets I'm keeping."

"Don't be silly. Adam, can we just enjoy—?"

"I don't love you," he said. There was no malice or ill-will behind the words. It was simply a statement of truth.

Looking at him, she wasn't sure he had actually said the words. Maybe she had imagined them. Maybe he had said something else completely. "What?"

"I don't," Adam said simply. "At least not the way Will loves you, or the way you love him."

"And how did you come to this realization?"

For the briefest of moments, Adam looked hesitant, a hint of guilt sparking in his eyes. "That's not really important. The point is I know now what I didn't before. I didn't know you loved him. I thought you were just running to him because you were confused by the loss of the baby and angry at me. I didn't realize there was genuine pull between you two. You love Will, and he loves you."

"If you won't tell me how you know, can you at least tell me how long you've known what you're saying?"

"For a while," Adam said. "He and I had a long talk before he made the decision to leave the ranch."

"You made him leave?"

"I didn't make him do anything. He was the one who was dead-set on leaving. It didn't matter what I had to say."

"If you knew you didn't love me then, if you knew how he and I felt about each other why didn't you say anything when he was leaving?"

"It didn't seem like the right time."

"Not the right time?" Laura repeated breathlessly as her stomach began to turn with sickness. "How could it not have been the right time? Back then there would have been the option for different choices than what's been decided upon."

"And now there's not?"

"Maybe for you. You can decide not to love me. You can leave our troubled situation with little complication to your life."

Face contorting, Adam looked between her and his wheelchair accusingly. "My life hasn't become complicated as a result of us?" Shaking his head, took a deep breath, held it, then exhaled it and lowered his tone. "That is not the point I'm trying to make. I don't want to fight with you; I am tired of fighting all the time."

"And that's my fault?"

"No. Laura, look, I'm saying this badly. I didn't say anything back then because I didn't have a chance to. I'm not telling you the truth now to hurt or make you angry. This isn't something I'm saying impulsively. I've given it a great deal of thought."

"Oh, I'm sure of that."

"Can you listen to me, please?"

"It appears as though it is the only choice I have left."

"That's not true," Adam disagreed. "You know that's not true." He sounded so passionate, his eyes glistening in the moonlight. There was a sincerity to his words and expression that seemed to have gone missing in the recent months. "Laura, you have a choice; you always have a choice, even when you think you don't, you do."

She hadn't believed him when he had said the words so many times before. What could possibly allow her to foolishly believe such a thing now? If Will was gone and Adam no longer wanted her than she was alone. In fact, if their engagement was called off, she was worse than alone. She would be scandalized, looked up by the neighbors and townsfolk as unwanted, damaged somehow. She would have little hope in finding a new suitor and Peggy would grow up forever altered, silently marred by her mother's inabilities. She would grow up the way Laura had, desperate for a man to take her far away from her mother's mistakes. Laura fought tears, unable to tolerate the intense pain of such a notion.

"Adam, for someone so intelligent you can be quite dumb. The only people in this world with the luxury of making choices are men. I suppose you can't see that because you are one. You have no idea what it's like to have adjusted to and forced yourself to embrace a life and then have it torn away!"

"I'm not tearing anything away from you—"

"I'm not talking about you. I'm talking about Frank. He promised to take care of me; he wasn't supposed to die. Maybe he left quite frequently and for extended periods of time. Maybe he wasn't the finest man when he did come home but at least I still had a husband; a man to hide myself behind so the world wouldn't judge so harshly."

"Losing him wasn't easy for you," Adam said softly. "You struggled after; I know that."

"Of course, you do, because you lingered so often after. First to ensure Peggy knew the truth about her father. Then to ensure something I'm not even sure you wanted in the first place. You courted me, remember? Helping around the ranch, befriending my daughter, and accompanying us to church. You knew what you doing; you just pretended you didn't. I didn't go asking for your attention; you decided to give it to me, and now you're taking yourself away."

"I can't take away what I never truly gave to you. You must know that. I am sorry for what I did when I was uncertain how it was making me feel. I don't love you, at least not in the right way. I know that now, and, if I'm honest, I think I knew it all along."

"Then why did you do anything you did?"

"Because I wanted to marry you for the same reason you wanted to marry me."

Laura shook her head. "That doesn't make any sense."

"Yes, it does."

"Adam, I entertained you as a suitor because of the benefits our union would provide my daughter. How can you tell me that…?" She paused, taken back by earnestness of his expression.

"I never loved you," Adam said. "I always loved Peggy. I would do anything if it meant that little girl would have a good life. What I did, I did for Peggy. It was always for Peggy, until… well… the day it became for someone else too."

Laura's throat tightened. He was talking about the baby—their baby—the loss of which they had never spoken about.

"I don't think I reacted properly to that news," Adam continued. "I was frightened to know that you were with child, that you were with my child. But it excited me too. I had never given much thought to becoming a father. I had assumed it was something that would happen someday. Funny thing about someday is that it's always a day that seems so far away. Having it happen so suddenly was jolting but not unwelcome. Never unwelcome. If I could somehow go back in time and tell you that then I would." He glanced sadly at the chair supporting his weight. "Maybe we wouldn't be where we are. Maybe we would love each other, because someone else we loved so much would be with us too."

"It wouldn't have changed anything."

She didn't believe that, not really; she couldn't bear to think about how much pain she would feel if she did. If she or Adam could have done something to keep their child, then they would have done it. Some things in life were just destined to only exist to be lost.

"I wanted that baby more than anything in this world," Adam said. "Knowing we lost something that never really was is a strange kind of loss. It's agonizing and confusing. I didn't handle that news well either. I didn't know how to support you properly. I couldn't see your pain without being so consumed by my own."

"So, you went to San Francisco."

"And in my absence, you were overcome by grief and needed someone else to be strong for you. Will was there when I wasn't."

"Is that a statement supposed to just absolve me of my wrongdoing?"

"Maybe it's meant to absolve both of us. When I came back and gave you that ring and pushed you to set a wedding date, I knew then I didn't want to marry you. I knew that whatever fondness had existed between us had been torn away with that child."

"Then why did you do it? Why give me the ring and push for the date? Why make the decision to build the house in secret? Why not leave me then and not now? Why wait until the timing is so much worse than what it would have been? Don't you understand, without Will or the promise of you, I have nothing. I have no future to distract me from the past."

"That's not true, because you love Will and he loves you."

Shaking her head, she wanted to scream. Would he never see what was so clear? "Will went to San Francisco, Adam. He left."

"No, he didn't. That's what I've been trying to tell you. He didn't leave. He's in Virginia City."

"Waiting for the stage?" she asked dumbly.

"Waiting for you," Adam said. "He left the Ponderosa but he couldn't bring himself to leave town."

"Why would he do that? Adam, I'm engaged to you."

"Yes, but you see, I don't love you. I can give you a good life but I can never promise you that. Will can give you both love and a life. Don't you see? You still have a choice, Laura. You don't believe it, but you do. Make the right one."

She thought for a moment, feeling relieved and hesitant at the same time. "What about you?" she asked.

"Don't worry about me."

"How can I not? It's because of me you're in that chair."

"Forget about all of that," Adam said firmly. "There's no use holding on to it. It happened and now we're here. When you leave, you'll have Peggy and Will, and I have my father and my brothers. I'm hardly alone. I'll be fine."

"But you can't walk. How can I possibly leave you when you're still—"

"I said, I'll be fine. Marry Will, Laura. Live on your ranch, have more babies and love them the way you would have loved ours. Forgive yourself for the past and move on. Embrace and enjoy a future with Will that I won't give you. We're not meant for each other, not really. I know that, and I think you know it too."

Nodding numbly, she stood and lingered in place for a moment, not knowing exactly what to do. "I suppose I should return to bed," she said numbly. "Do you need help getting back to your room?"

"No." Adam's eyes held hers, his voice strengthening with each word. "You go. I'll be fine. I know it's hard to believe now while I'm still in this chair. But I promise you, I will be, and so will you."

She wondered if the assurance had been spoken to comfort her or himself. Either way, it didn't matter. It didn't make him any less right. She didn't love him; she never had, and she never would, at least not the way she loved Will.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Bending over, she gripped the respective arms of his wheelchair and placed a kiss on his cheek. Then she stood tall, her shoulders pulled back, her head held high, and she walked away from him. Though she desperately wanted to, she forced herself not to look back. She promised herself she would never look back.

…

For the most part, she never did look back. She had no reason to.

She and Will were married that winter. It was a ludicrous time for anyone to plan such a thing, but they had decided they didn't want to wait. There was no purpose in waiting until spring or summer, anxiously waiting for the future to arrive when it was possible to have what they both wanted immediately.

Their wedding was a small affair, their audience was only family, a small group composed of Peggy, the Cartwrights, and, of course, Aunt Lil. The men who had once seemed destined to become her father and brothers by marriage had become an uncle and cousins instead.

Ben did not seem surprised by the sudden break of she and Adam's engagement and her quick betrothment to Will—which led Laura to wonder how much Adam had confided in him about what had happened between them—but Hoss and Joe were. Still, they were supportive and accepting. She was certain this was Adam's doing. They were at peace with the situation because he was; he had deemed Laura and Will's union as something to celebrate rather than begrudge.

Adam continued to improve; his body steadily recovered from the fall. He began walking again. Slowly and sparsely at first, but by the time winter arrived the strength of his legs had returned, and with her arm tucked in the crook of his elbow, it was he who walked Laura down the aisle.

Peggy wasn't as quick to embrace the change in her mother's suitors as everyone else. She was surprisingly resistant to Will stepping into the role of impending-stepfather Adam had been so carefully constructing for over a year. It was a difficult situation for her to adjust to; over time she became more tolerant of the situation and Will; eventually she accepted him as the father she had wanted Adam so badly to be. It was a hint of a lingering dream that Laura was certain her daughter was only truly allowed to let go of because of yet another change.

Adam left home in the following fall. It was a decision that seemed unpredictable and sudden; it came to a surprise the most of the townsfolk—including Will—who couldn't seem to understand why a man who seemed to have all the successes a man could ever ask for would choose to turn his back on them. It didn't shock Laura as much as she pretended it did, because in her heart she thought she understood. She wasn't the only one who had to vowed to never look back; sometimes the only way to let go of the past was to embrace a new future.

Though they never spoke directly again, Laura thought about Adam from time to time, especially during fall. Secretly, he was the reason she came to embrace and love fall, the challenges and tribulations, the unseen beauty of another dreaded ending that always accompanied each one. She knew now that the trees had to change color before losing their leaves, and time would always pass, healing their wounds, and in spring their branches would flourish and bud once more. All that was ever needed was the forgiveness of another season, another fresh beginning granted by the passing of time.

END


End file.
